#copper abbott

[zeeader]

People: HE'S A MURDERER! HE KILLED 12 PEOPLE AND CHOPPED THEM

Me: but he's hot?!!!!

[shoshiwrites]

Can I request Jo and Bucky + 39. a lit candle and a snowstorm, please? 💕

Please forgive me for really only using this prompt as a jumping-off point for fall vibes instead of winter. I was also going to keep this short and OOPS. Biggest hugs to @floydmtalbert for helping me brainstorm this and for answering all my questions, Harvest Festival-related and otherwise ♡ Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC.

sky full of song

She wished Kay were here, to take photographs of everything.

Kay had left Jo with a Kodak Brownie that she insisted she could spare — Jo hadn’t summoned the nerve yet to test it out, fearing she’d break it. The same skittishness she reserved for plants and watering cans and, she hoped, not a lot else. Kay had narrowed her eyes with only a little judgement. “I’d hand over the Rolleiflex too if I had another one to spare,” she said, while Jo made a noise of dismissal. “You’re very much to be trusted, Jo, I hope you know that by now.”

The Kodak, a couple of rolls of film to get her started. That didn’t count the fresh bars of soap packed at the top of Jo’s suitcase, the gin and fernet under the sink, or the tiny bottle of perfume she’d slipped into the pocket of Jo’s coat in the front closet. Jo didn’t remember the label — French, of course, and floral, like the beautiful dresses and suits packed away in Kay’s trunk from home. 

She’d dabbed a tiny bit on tonight, her wrists and behind her ears. She didn’t often wear a scent, or if she did it was something someone might call cheap. Orange blossom, usually, which she loved. But today she’d been out in the fields, observing the Land Army girls and the farmers around the village and the base. Talking about the harvest and about the relatives fighting, as carefully as they could. It loomed above them, behind them, below, the Norwich Blitz of the year before, the war still ahead, the news out of Italy they’d all been following on the radio. 

She was still dressed for the day outside, amongst the dry grass and the cow patties, having been too caught up in edits and wiring to change out of her trousers and light peasant blouse. She’d adjusted the blouse in the mirror in her room, tucked it in more carefully, and tried to do something with her hair — it still wisped out around her ears, the back of her neck. And, of course, she’d changed her shoes. 

It had even been sunny, and what you might call warm — it accounted for the tiniest hint of copper in her brown hair, and something almost like a tan, or as much as you could get in late September. She feels warm here, inside the village hall, the day’s sun and the stuffiness of the building, despite the beautiful decorations, the food and drink, the music. 

Kay would appreciate the decorations, too — flowers Jo carefully notes for no other reason than to let her friend know — heleniums and coneflowers, deep chocolate-brown dahlias and frilly white yarrow and coppertips, delicate cosmos and chrysanthemums besides. Kay could write a book, she thinks, of flower samples and photos and vignettes. Jo’s article doesn’t need such specificity — it’s about the American fliers joining the harvest festival, the cases of Coca-Cola brought over from the base to join the ale and cider and lemonade, the folk dances, the corn dollies pinned to olive drab by the children of Thorpe Abbotts. They’ve been shepherded home, the children, and now left are the grownups, the fliers, some of the village teenagers not far in age if not the same.

She’s not sure if she craves a ginger beer or something stronger. She knows she needs a cigarette. Cold air, too, maybe even more than the smoke.

There’s still plenty of people — part of why it’s so warm inside, too, she notes – and she slips out to the front steps with hand already in her pocket for her lighter. The stars look even brighter tonight, in the crisp fall air. She lights up carefully, shielding her hand. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, but she doesn’t care. It’s hardly the first time, here or back home. This time, at least, nobody’s locking her out. She sits, takes a drag. Tries not to think about how crowded it felt in there, how for a moment she felt as though she were suffocating.

“Oh good-” she hears behind her. “You’re still here.” She turns to see him behind her, above her, pressed uniform and the stray curl on his forehead. “Thought we spotted you leaving.” In the moonlight, his cheeks still look pink. “You heading out?” 

She hadn’t decided until this moment. “I think so,” she says. 

“Hot enough for you in there?” 

“A bit.”

He takes a second, adjusts to the outside. The chill in the air. Watches her, sitting on the step in her blouse and her bare arms and the hair she’s unpinned now that she’s alone. “Can I walk you home?”

She’d refuse the offer, except the house she’s staying in is at least a ten minute walk, on the edge of the village. A little more, even, ambling along in the dark. She’d refuse the offer, except she doesn’t want to. He holds out a hand to take her cigarette, the other to help her to her feet. 

“You can have it,” she says, before she can stop herself, but he’s handed it back to her already as he starts to unbutton his jacket. She watches the cherry glow, imprinted on the darkness, before she remembers to cup it with her hand. 

“Oh no- I’m alright-”

“Wasn’t a question,” he says, and drapes it over her shoulders before she can protest further. “What would Kay say if I let you catch something?”

She almost snorts. It smells like him, of course, settles the unease in her body before she can worry that someone else will leave the party and see the two of them standing there. It’s also entirely too big. Comical, even. It’s practically a coat on her.

“Pneumonia’s no joke, Josephine.”

“Oh, I know.”

Before she knows it, they’re on their way back to the house, gravel crunching quietly under their feet. It’s enough to walk beside him, here, take the moment to breathe.

The house is quiet too, blackout curtains drawn. Muriel’s gone upstairs for the evening, and it’s with a gentle yank of his hand that Jo leads them around to the back gate, the one that’s never locked. It creaks open, the sound magnified in the dark.

They don’t bother with chairs, or more accurately she doesn’t want to make the noise, open the shed door and drag them out onto the flagstone. They sit, on the ground, in the garden. It smells like earth and cold and she can partly make him out in the starlight, the slope of his noise and his ears and his mouth, eyelashes, the insignias on his shirt collar. He doesn’t let her take off his jacket, even like this.

“Yankees won the pennant,” he says. “On Saturday.”

“I saw. Heard,” she corrects. Her knuckles brush against his on the stone. “I’m glad.” She almost laughs — Lena would be shocked to hear her say so. “Don’t tell my friends I said that.”

She hears him huff a little laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She looks over at the dark outline of the house, her eyes drawn to what looks like the tiniest glimmer of light upstairs. A candle, she realizes, in Muriel’s window. Jo hopes she hasn’t left it burning while she’s asleep. 

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks. “Kay left a couple of things in the kitchen, some of the hard-to-find stuff. I’m sure we could rustle up some glasses-” She stops, stills, when she notices he’s reached into his pocket for his flask. His pocket, of the jacket she’s wearing, the one that’s trailing on the ground. “Sorry,” she says. 

“What’re you apologizing for?”

For rambling, she wants to say. For not knowing. For taking your jacket. For sending you up there day after day with nothing but a lousy stack of clippings to show for it. She doesn’t believe that, not really, except for when she does.

“Nothing, I guess,” she says.

“Good.”

She goes and gets herself a drink as quietly as she can, carefully making her way back to the spot in the middle of the garden. 

“Are you cold?” 

He shakes his head, tips back the flask. “Used to it.”

She sips at the gin, the sharp, piney flavor of juniper floods her mouth, makes her pull her lips over her teeth. Not enough tonic water, but she’s not about to head back in again in the dark. 

“It’ll be snowing already in Wisconsin,”  he says. She squints at him in the dark, at the warmth she feels beside her. “Or almost,” he corrects. 

“It’s only September.”

“We got snow in late September last year,” he says. “Up north.”

“Not in Manitowoc.” She tries not to stumble over the name, but it halts in her mouth.

He makes a noise that’s almost like a laugh, almost like surprise. “Not in Manitowoc,” he repeats. He hands her his flask; she can feel his arm bump her own. “C’mon, have some of the strong stuff.”

“Gin isn’t the strong stuff?” She takes the flask anyway, tips it back against her lips. She hasn’t had any in a while, certainly not like this. It’s hot in her throat, smoky and burning. The barest hint of honey. Despite herself, she coughs. 

She doesn’t hand it back to him yet, only proffers her own drink. “Only fair,” she says. She can’t see his face too well in the dark, but hears him take a sip. 

“Kay could make a killing here in England,” he says. “The booze.”

“She could.”

Upstairs, Jo notices the candle’s gone out. The warmth of the whiskey and the gin blooms in her chest. 

“When you do think they get snow in England?” he asks. 

There’d been a dusting on the ground in London when she and William had arrived in February. But not much. “I don’t know,” she says plainly. “Why?”

“Figured you’d know these things,” he says, and she can hear a smile shade his voice. “Being a reporter and all.”

She does laugh at that.

“There was a little, when I got here. A dusting. Like icing sugar.” It sounds silly as she says it. Like it hadn’t been pissing rain and cold and she’d had to bundle up in bed like she’d had to when she was a girl, curled up and waiting for William to come up from the hotel bar and whatever story he’d claimed to be chasing. She could think these things now, call it for what it was. That the “stories” usually had blonde hair and long legs, or red hair and short legs, or were anyone but Jo.

“Sounds picturesque.” He sounds like he’s sounding out the word.

“Almost.”

“Merry old England not living up to expectations?”

She takes a deep breath. “No- I just-”

“Just what?”

She can call it for what it was now, but she can’t think about what couldn’t have been. John instead of William, there beside her. During the air raids, the ones she’d almost always had to soldier on through without him. “I don’t know,” she says again. Maybe she should thank god it’s dark outside, so that he can’t see her face.

He takes another drink from the flask, but this time it’s slower. She can’t help it, the way she places her glass down and pulls her knees up, not quite to her chest. She can’t tell if she’s cold or not, between the jacket and the whiskey and the fact that he’s here, quiet and not, breathing, sitting on the ground here beside her. That there had been no questions about it. That she’d sat, and he’d sat. That he’s closer to her now than he was when they started. 

His hand, next to hers, and pressing against it now, and hooking his fingers around hers in silence. She thinks of the names she knows that he doesn’t, she ones she carries in her pockets, the names he stores away in his jacket lining, the barracks, buried out in the field. The runway. The air.

Maybe it’s alright, in this moment, to let them all leave her mind. To hold his hand.

Out beyond the garden wall, something rustles in the trees. A small animal, probably. A pair of birds. They both sit up just a little at the interruption. 

“I don’t know what time it is,” he says. “Must be late.” She motions for his wrist, and he holds steady as she shields her lighter with her hand, reads the face illuminated against his skin. 

“11:17.”

“A good year,” he says. She huffs a laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

It’s getting colder out, as the hour darkens. All that wind coming down off the North Sea. The thought of him walking back all by himself kicks at her heart. 

She wishes they could just go inside together. Go up to bed. She can’t say it out loud, she knows. A secret she can’t let him keep. Not now. Maybe he already knows.

“I can’t keep you out so late,” she says. 

“Protecting my honor, Josephine?” She can hear the laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

She stands with his help, her hands clasped around his. They walk to the gate, like holding a breath before they fumble a kiss goodnight in the dark. Slow, and unseeing, only feeling him, his lips on hers. His hand finds the small of her back, slides down to her hip. She leans into him, tasting the whiskey, the smell of him, his jacket still around her. His breath on her cheek. One hand on his chest, and then the other. She reaches, touches his jaw with the backs of her fingers. He hums against her, low and wanting. 

“I’ll go,” he says, like he’s convincing himself too.

“I’ll be back at the base in the morning,” she says, shrugging out of his jacket. Immediately, she’s cold. “You’re not flying tomorrow.”

He takes it, but he doesn’t put it back on. If he’s surprised that she knows that, she can’t see it. “Right.”

The moon is higher now, the stars scattered above. He kisses her again, the gentlest tug at her bottom lip, the brush of his mustache against her. He’s everything, here, where she can barely see him. She can’t help herself from the exhale, the kind that sounds like she’s trying to hold it all in.

“You smell nice,” he says. His voice is the quietest she’s heard. Like a little boy. He touches his forehead against hers, just for a moment. Her hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing. And then he’s gone. 

She turns back to the house, looming in the dark. The wind whistles in the trees, the only light the moon reflected in the closed windows. She wraps her arms around herself, and heads inside. 

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Rhett x Tess: a supernatural au

Summary: After a particularly bad hunt, Rhett and Tess need some reassurance - and relief.

Pairing: Hunter!Rhett Abbott x Hunter!OC (Tessa Abernathy)

Word Count: 1367

Warnings: established relationship, blood/gore mention, gun mention, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI (neck grabbin', slight blood kink if you squint, unprotected pinv, public sex, rough sex, creampie, an emotional turn there at the end)

✎……likes are great but comments/reblogs are even better!

✎……listen this was originally part of a kinkmas in july thing i wanted to do but couldn't go through with do to life but this has been sitting in my drafts for forever (so yes, I'm still on hiatus) and SINCE it's July i thought...why not. so here ya go.

Blood. So much blood. They were both drenched in it — soaked down to their bones. It matted down their hair and squelched in their boots. The whites of their eyes shining bright in the moonlight as they walked back to Rhett’s truck. 

A Skinwalker. Nasty shapeshifting beast. It took a week to track him down and even longer to lure and trap him in that barn. Eventually, Rhett got him with the silver loaded shotgun just as the thing was about to jump down on them — eat their hearts right out of their chests. The monster exploded in blood and guts everywhere. Not a pretty sight. But at least they were alive. 

They reached the truck, parked behind the old barn, and Rhett threw their supply bag into the bed. 

His hands still shook with leftover adrenaline. They itched to move, to fight, to do something. He glanced over at Tessa. She stood right beside the truck, rocking in place, blue eyes focused off in the middle distance.

He hated using her as bait. But they were low on options and time before the Skinwalker killed again. She knew what she was getting into, loving him, involving herself in his family’s business. She took to it like a natural, like she was raised to be a Hunter. But this job was harder than most. 

It was adrenaline and relief and fear all at once. He knew what his hands itched to do.

Boots crunching through the thin layer of gravel, Rhett reached her in only a few strides. He took her bloody face in his bloody hands — and she looked up at him without hesitation.

“Thought I lost you,” he whispered as he tugged her close, pressing every inch of her to every inch of him. 

The corner of her mouth ticked up. “S’gonna take a lot more than that t'get rid’a me, Abbott.” 

He kissed her like he was hungry for it. Like he wanted to devour her. Heart and all. Violent in its desire. The copper tang of blood infected each kiss, each swipe of their tongues, but neither of them cared. A broken moan echoed in her throat and got caught in his mouth as he backed her up against the side of the truck. Her back collided with the metal with a dull thud. Tessa fisted his bloodied shirt in her hands, tugging and pulling and urging him as close as she could get.

The sound of his veins pulsed in his ears as he gripped her throat in one large palm. He could nearly get his fingers to touch at the nape of her neck. As his other hand snaked between them and cupped her cunt through her jeans. She broke away from his lips with a cry, head tilting back to smack against the truck door unceremoniously.

Blood. Everything was blood. The taste of her. The crimson on their skin. The sound in his ears. Rushing and rushing and rushing inside him until it came to a red, burning hot halt in his cock. 

“Need you,” he whispered, hoarse and low, in her ear. 

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop devouring. His lips dragged across her cheek, his hand pressing into her — forcing her onto her toes. Tessa could feel it. The hard press of him against her stomach. She needed this too. This relief, this reassurance. Fast and greedy and nasty as it was. 

She nodded and that was all he needed. 

Pulling her away from the truck, Rhett opened the door and urged her to get inside. Everything happened in a rush. She climbed inside, scooted back on the bench seat as she undid her blood crusted jeans and worked them off over her boots. Rhett clambered in after her, on top of her, belt already hanging loose. He captured her mouth in another starving kiss as he pushed her further up the bench.

A ripping sound cracked through the cab of the truck. And then he had her underwear, now nothing more then a scrap of cloth, tossed onto the floor. 

She liked that pair but she didn’t even care. Everything just felt so hot. Her skin, the blood, the slick that coated her thighs. But it wasn’t enough. As she laid there and watched her lover pull himself from the confines of his jeans, she wondered if it ever would be. If this ache would ever go away.

There was no preamble, no prep, no foreplay. He slipped the plush tip between her folds — slicking himself with her juices. Catching against her clit. 

“Rhett,” she breathed into his ear, insistent, begging. 

“I know,” he answered, lining himself up. “I got what ya need.”

He pushed in slowly, but he didn’t wait for her to adjust. Normally, he would take his time. Let her feel every inch of him. But this wasn’t about that. This was carnal, this was base instinct, animalistic, rough and ready. Blood covered bodies after a hunt on the bench seat of his truck. 

Tessa cried out, broken and breathy, as he bottomed out inside her. Filled her to the brim. She felt him in her guts, in her bloodstream. Her fingers tangled in his hair and held him close. Rhett groaned, braced on his forearms, face screwed up in concentration as he paused for only a moment.

Then he drew up onto one knee, his other foot planted on the truck floor, hands firm on some of the only parts of her that weren’t coated in blood as he lifted her hips completely off the bench to follow.

Tessa shouted some expletive, hands scrambling for purchase against the leather seating, at the change in angle. It hit something deep inside her that made her drool and her spine go numb. He pounded into her at a ruthless pace, making the entire truck jerk and rock from side to side. She yanked up her own shirt, pulling her breasts from the confines of her bra to roll her nipplies between her fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck — tha's it,” Rhett panted above her as he pistoned his hips, fingers sure to leave more than bloody prints behind. “Can y'touch y'r pussy, baby? Play with y'r lil'clit f'me?”

Nodding, mind completely blank to everything but his words and his cock buried inside her, she trailed one hand down the clean skin of her belly. She left a line of crimson in her wake. Then she pressed two fingers into her clit and her back arched as she rubbed quick circles in time with Rhett’s thrusts. 

“So good — oh, R-Rhett, please!” she cried, desperate to meet him in the canting of his hips. 

But she couldn’t. He was too fast, too desperate. There was something wild and animalistic in his eyes as he roughly shoved her body onto his cock. Punching sound after sound out of her until it was nothing but his name chanted like a prayer.

Mouth dropped open, shoulders curled over like he just got punched in the gut, Rhett’s hips worked even faster — thrusts more shallow. 

“Shit, fuck — need y't’cum, baby, com'on. Wanna feel it. Wan'it.”

A rolling, moaning cry tumbled from her lips as she did as he asked. Her vision flashed white, her back arched nearly completely off the bench. Every muscle tense and taut as it crashed through her. Rhett made a small noise, an oonf, as he stilled beneath the touch of her still clenching walls. His hot seed coating her insides. 

For a moment, everything was still. The windows of the cab were fogged. Crickets chirped just outside the still open truck door. They both panted for breath. 

Then something in Rhett’s face changed. Gone was the wild. Gone was the concentration. It was something else that Tessa couldn’t read in the dim light. But she understood when he stripped off his bloody t-shirt and collapsed against her chest. His skin was fever hot, his heart beat frantically inside his chest, and his shoulders shook only slightly as he tucked his face into the crook of her neck.

She wrapped her arms around him easily. Threaded her fingers through his hair. 

“S’okay, sweet boy, I’m here. I’m here.”

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[thefanficwriterscraft]

S3E6. Money, Business & Economics (Or, Here's The Link To Our Ko-Fi!)

Hello everyone!! We are back!! Here's the link to our brand new episode!!

In this episode, Jo (@pebblysand) and Lani (@copper-dust) discuss the significance of writing about money, business, and economics in fanfiction. They explore how these themes can add depth and realism to stories by reflecting the financial decisions and social class differences between characters. Lani touches on how class dynamics and poverty are central to her stories, while Jo discusses how economic power imbalances are intentionally woven into castles. They also share challenges in portraying historical economic realities and prices, and in making business plotlines engaging. They finally show how using these themes can enhance character development and world-building, making fanfiction both entertaining and thought-provoking.

This week, we mention: 

Books: Room by Emma Donoghue ; Slammerkin by Emma Donoghue ; The Wonder by Emma Donoghue

Fandoms: Harry Potter

Fics: castles by pebblysand ; Merry Men by copper_dust ; Check The Spindle by copper_dust

Films: It Ends With Us ;

TV: The Bear ; Abbott Elementary ; 

Other: Coffee Shop Post

Your recommendations for this week are:

Sundew by elen (elennaen)

You can find us online at:

The Fanfic Writer’s Craft: tumblr ; spotify ; ko-fi

Lani (@copper-dust): tumblr ; AO3

Jo (@pebblysand): tumblr ; AO3

[dhr-ao3]

Echoes of Hermione

Echoes of Hermione https://ift.tt/0LQ2NEi by Valerie (elodiefair) The Second Wizarding War rages on. Voldemort takes control of the Ministry the summer of 1997, securing his place in Wizarding history. Immortality brings with it patience, and thus the Death Eater Regime begins to roll out the first of many phases of affirmative action in eliminating muggle presence in the Wizarding World. The summer before Hermione’s promised seventh year of Hogwarts, she is suddenly hauled away from her home and imprisoned thousands of miles away by the very enemy she has sought to defeat AKA: Real prejudice in the Wizarding World. Thanks, JKR, for over simplifying racism/classism and making it A-okay! Words: 7173, Chapters: 4/?, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/M, Gen Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Dennis Creevey, Colin Creevey, Mary Cattermole, Dirk Cresswell, Mundungus Fletcher, Ben Copper (Hogwarts Mystery), Kevin Entwhistle, Elisa Haywood, Juniper Hunt, Donaghan Tremlett, Terry Boot, Minor Characters, Hannah Abbott, Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Pepper-Up Potion (Harry Potter), Wizards, Second Wizarding War with Voldemort (Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Historical, Muggle-born, Prejudice Against Muggle-borns, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Incompetent (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), Allegory, Inspired by Manacled - senlinyu, Protective Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger-centric, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Dark Hermione Granger, Wizarding World Bashing (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), inspired by history, Historical Allegory, Writing True Prejudice in Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Eventual Romance via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/QHablsW September 12, 2024 at 11:46PM

[tvreadsandsleep]

This blog pretty much runs on the queue (which is >500 posts deep).

This season I’m watching Bob's Burgers, The Great North, The Equalizer, Tracker, The Neighborhood, Brilliant Minds, English Teacher, Rescue: HI-Surf, High Potential, The Irrational, Chicago Med, Abbott Elementary, Grey's Anatomy, Doctor Odyssey, Ghosts, Found, Will Trent, Matlock, and Fire Country.

Casual Star Trek and Marvel fan + I enjoy holiday movies (come December I will be spamming Christmas gifs; you’ve been warned).

I've written fanfic for Twisted (Dacey still has my heart even though the show did them dirty), How to Get Away with Murder (Michaela Pratt is still my favorite), and Black Panther: Wakanda Forever (Attoye is that ship).

Favorite authors include Katrina Jackson, Kenya Wright, Talia Hibbert and Theodora Taylor cause I enjoy romance and smut (with a dash of messiness).

Forever upset about the cancellations of Still Star-Crossed, Selfie, Pitch, and The Passage.

Here for my Attoye fanfic? 

I’m taking a break from writing, but here’s a list of the stories (drabbles, ficlets, etc.) I’ve written.

Smut

You Said What About My Rhino?! (AO3)

What Happened in the Sauna… (AO3)

Talking Her Through (AO3)

Nonm Reken (AO3)

Preparation? More Like Distraction: One & Two (AO3)

Attoye Prompt Table

Sun, Moon and Stars (AO3)

Keep Your Distance, Please (AO3)

Morning Contemplation (AO3)

Wager Gone Wrong (AO3)

Don’t Disrespect My Union (AO3)

Half-Year Merriment (AO3)

Attoye Prompt Drabbles (Periodic Cues on AO3)

You may be seated

Copper coins

You will need to wear a hat

Keyhole

I suppose that’s all of them

Unadulterated

New laws

I recognized her voice

Slippery

Such a sad, pitiful piece of furniture—barely deserving the title of ‘chair’

Upstairs neighbor

I don’t know any songs

Snakeskin

She bought five of them 

I was alone, but satisfied

Readings

We need more room

Mechanical

Rainy days

Aside

Do not get distracted

Time limit

Inhaling

I meant that as a compliment

I don’t like you

You’re exaggerating

Pillowcase

What do you mean ‘the sun is gone’?

Yes, I'm loved now, but at what cost?

Stop making that face. You know I can't resist that face

[delvenservices]

Baby Care Products Market Trends & Forecast: 2028

Baby Care Products Market, by Material Type (Copper, Low Carbon), End-Use (Residential, Commercial, Industrial), Implementation (New Construction, Retrofit) and Geography (North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, Middle East and Africa and South America)

The global Baby Care Products market size is projected to reach USD 20 billion by 2026 at a CAGR of 5.7% from USD 13.4 billion in 2021 during the forecast period 2021-2028.

Baby care products are products offered by various companies that are used for infants and children below the age of three. These include hygiene products like shampoo, soap, cream, lotions specially manufactured for children keeping in mind their skin type and environment.

With an increased awareness of parents towards hygiene and convivence offered by such products along with the increased expenditure on baby care products are some of the factors that have supported long-term expansion for Baby Care Products Market.

The COVID-19 pandemic is causing widespread concern and economic hardship for consumers, businesses, and communities across the globe. Baby care product market id no exception to the trend

Request Research Sample Pages: https://www.delvens.com/get-free-sample/baby-care-products-market-trends-forecast-till-2028

Report Scope

Baby Care Products Market is segmented into type, distribution channel and geography.

On the basis of Type

Baby Skin Care

Baby Hair Care

Baby Toiletries

Baby Food and Beverages

On the basis of Distribution Channel

Hypermarkets/Supermarkets

Pharmacies/Drug Stores

Convenience Stores

Online Retailing

Other Distribution Channel

On the basis of Region

Asia Pacific

North America

Europe

South America

Middle East & Africa

Purchase the Report at: https://www.delvens.com/checkout/baby-care-products-market-trends-forecast-till-2028

Regional Analysis

Asia Pacific is expected to be the largest market during the forecast period.

Key Players

Kimberly Clark Corp.

Procter & Gamble Co.

BABISIL, Unilever Plc.

Johnson and Johnson

Nestle S.A.

Cotton Babies, Inc.

Danone S.A.

Abbott Nutrition

The Himalaya Drug Company

Recent Developments

In September 2020, Johnson & Johnson launched their new baby careline named as cotton touch. This includes lotion, oil, wash and cream.

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[theboysfromaustin]

Fucking thunderstorms

No sun for my seedlings for 2 days now

Can't leave my computer on and have to unplug that and expensive-ass printer because I almost lost the entire computer in the 2021 ice storms due to CONSTANT power outages from major cunt Gregg Abbott's shitty-ass grid that's made of tin cans and copper wiring

One nice fucking day that's all I ask

[biglisbonnews]

Lindsay Lohan Makes Rare NYFW Appearance to Support Her Model Siblings Lindsay Lohan was being a supportive older sister last night. For New York Fashion Week, the actress attended the Christian Siriano Fall 2023 fashion show and watched her siblings Ali, 29 and Cody, 26 stride the catwalk. Lohan cheered on her siblings from the front row, where she was alongside 10 Things I Hate About You actress Julia Stiles and Abbott Elementary star Quinta Brunson.Related | Inside Lindsay Lohan's Enduring Cult of CelebrityNYFW is a rare public appearance for Lohan as she has lived in Dubai since 2014. However, nothing could stop her from flying across the Atlantic to return to her hometown of NYC to cheer on her family. It was a full family event as Lohan’s mother Dina was there, too. Lohan hasn’t been seen front and center at a fashion show in many years. From 2003 to 2012 she regularly attended shows for brands like Chanel and Cynthia Rowley. However, Saint Laurent’s 2019 shows were the last time we’ve seen her at a fashion show. Lohan went backstage to snag some pics with Siriano and her siblings. The Parent Trap star looked stunning in a copper monochromatic look which matched her signature red locks perfectly. The look consisted of a silk flowy blouse and wide leg pants, designed by Siriano himself. Old Hollywood glam was in the air as the name of Christian Siriano’s show was “Welcome to Audrey Hepburn’s Rose Garden at Midnight.” Large hats, black and white ensembles and sleek silhouettes with flower appliqués were all showcased in the collection. Photos via Getty https://www.papermag.com/lindsay-lohan-christian-siriano-2659400820.html

[qvietwhispers]

closed starter for @wcrstorm​

After receiving Copper’s text, Winnie did in fact run all the way from the store to his house. She really needed to learn to drive, but still, Copper had needed her, so she had to get there as quickly as she could. Breathing heavily, she knocked on the door, waiting for him to answer. The moment he did, she grinned breathlessly at him, holding aloft the bag filled with far too much candy. “I’m here, I’m here,”

[wakefieldgossip]

I think Copper is cheating on Juliet with Winnie!

Wait, I thought little Abbott was a lesbian? Or was that the other one? They're not even identical and I still get confused. Either way, weird, I thought if anyone would cheat in this little relationship, it would be Juliet. ( @wcrstorm @qvietwhispers )

[sagaballero]

Zoomorphic or Chimera, 2020 (subconscious) Inspiration Alexander The Vision McQueen

[riotraze]

Anon clearly isn’t Australian.

Are you old enough to remember having to wait for youtube videos to buffer?

I remember the days when this comic was relevant

[fuzzysparrow]

Who was the model for Whistler's 'Symphony in White, No 1: The White Girl' (1861-63)?

Joanna Hiffernan’s reputation as the “Woman in White” developed after posing for Whistler’s painting 'The White Girl' (1861-63), later renamed 'Symphony in White, No 1'. Two more 'Symphonies in White' followed, which inspired other artists to paint similar scenes.

Hiffernan was born in Limerick, Ireland, in 1843, but moved with her family to London at the age of two to avoid the Irish Potato Famine. James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834-1903) was born in Massachusetts, USA, to Anna McNeill (1804-81) and George Washington Whistler (1800-49). His mother is the subject of one of Whistler’s most famous paintings, 'Arrangement in Grey and Black No.1', more commonly known as 'Whistler’s Mother' (1871).

In 1860, Whistler met Hiffernan for the first time in London and fell in love with her copper coloured hair. Whistler started including Hiffernan in his paintings, and she eventually became his lover. Whistler’s iconic 'Symphonies in White' marked a turning point in his career and introduced Hiffernan to the world. Whistler began the first of the three paintings in Paris in 1861 and submitted it to the Royal Academy in May 1862 under the title 'The White Girl'.

After splitting from Whistler in 1866, she looked after Whistler’s son, the result of an affair with a parlour maid. Hiffernan’s probably died in 1886 after a short illness. Other sources claim Hiffernan died in 1903 after attending Whistler’s funeral but this was probably Hiffernan’s sister, Agnes.

[larsonparson101]

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[steliosagapitos]

           “A Fireside”, 1912, by Mary Hiester Reid (Canadian painter, 1854 - 1921).

    ~ This painting portrays Hiester Reid’s studio in her home, Upland Cottage, in Wychwood Park, Toronto. When George Agnew Reid (1860–1947) designed the house, he made room for two studios, the second one larger, near the one pictured here.1  Hiester Reid captures her own deliberately styled interior replete with artfully arranged objects, flowers, and framed prints, located within a fire-lit, warmly toned space.This work, like the earlier piece Chrysanthemums: A Japanese Arrangement, c.1895, speaks particularly to Hiester Reid’s Aesthetic tastes. Inspired by the art critic John Ruskin (1819–1900), proponents of the Aesthetic movement, such as John Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), promoted the concept “art for art’s sake,” championing the pursuit of beauty and self-expression in all facets of life.2  Hiester Reid’s commitment to these pursuits is signalled by the strategically placed objects, such as the framed prints or paintings located on the wall adjacent to the fireplace, and flowers bearing a striking resemblance to Japanese orchids.While George Reid designed the house complete with two studio spaces, Hiester Reid here captures in painted form the couple’s collaborative dedication to the Arts and Crafts movement. In the 1850s artists such as William Morris (1834–1896) and Edward Burne-Jones (1833–1898) called for the elimination of the ideological divisions separating the fine arts and applied, decorative arts (or crafts), such as furniture design and production, as well as graphic design. Achieving this, Arts and Crafts reformers believed, would improve people’s quality of life and their aesthetic taste.3  In 1902 Hiester Reid and her husband helped establish in Toronto the Arts and Crafts Society in Canada, and they applied the society’s principles in the design and arrangement of their home.In A Fireside, Hiester Reid shows how the decorative and fine arts were incorporated into the home. The architectural details, such as the exposed beams and the inglenook (the recessed sitting area next to the fireplace covered by plush colourful pillows), frame and enclose the decor, the floral arrangement off to the right side, as well as artworks—some framed and others not—hanging atop the wood panelling in the inglenook and off to the far right.In 1911 Hiester Reid was photographed in this same studio space by William James for the Toronto Sunday World. In the photograph, Hiester Reid sits holding a palette and brushes, signalling her identity as a professional artist. In April of that year the image appeared as one of eleven artists’ portraits in a full-page feature article entitled “In the Studios of Toronto’s Best Known Artists.” Both the photograph and Hiester Reid’s painting produced approximately one year later depict objects and artworks that she had collected, such as brass and copper wares, an array of ceramics, and a print by Japanese artist Utagawa Kunisada (1786–1865). Also featured was George Reid’s painted copy of Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of a Dwarf with a Dog, c.1645.4  Velázquez was a seventeenth-century Baroque Spanish court painter that both Hiester Reid and her husband admired. Ultimately, Hiester Reid unites high and applied art, as in her private life, and she puts it here on public display.Source: Dr. Andrea Terry, National Gallery of Canada* * *Mary Augusta Hiester Reid was an American-born Canadian painter and teacher. She was best known as a painter of floral still lifes, and by 1890 she was thought to be the most important flower painter in Canada. She also painted domesticated landscapes, night scenes, and, less frequently, studio interiors and figure studies. Her work as a painter is related in a broad sense to Tonalism and Aestheticism or "art for art's sake".She was made a member of the Ontario Society of Artists in 1887, and in 1907 became only the second woman to serve on its executive committee. She was also one of the first women to be elected an Associate of the Royal Canadian Academy of Arts (RCA) in 1893. She was elected to join the Canadian Society of Applied Art in 1904.Reid was born in Reading, Pennsylvania on April 10, 1854. From 1883 to 1885, Reid studied painting at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts with Thomas Eakins. In the Academy, she met her future husband Canadian artist George Agnew Reid (1860–1947). From 1888 to 1889, she studied at the Académie Colarossi in Paris, taking costume-study and life classes. She studied there again in 1896.During the 19th and early 20th century, at the time of her schooling, women were rarely allowed to pursue art as a career. If they attended art school, they were often not taught the same subjects as men. Although they both attended art school, Mary was restricted to traditionally feminine themes, and in turn became known for her flower paintings. Despite the expectations for women to remain at home and care for children, Mary rose to prominence and became one of the first women to have her work included in the National Gallery of Canada.Reid exhibited her work at the Palace of Fine Arts at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Illinois and to the exhibitions of the OSA and the RCA, the Art Association of Montreal, the Women's Art Association of Canada, and the Canadian National Exhibition. She also exhibited her work at the Pan-American exposition in Buffalo (1901), and the Canadian exhibition at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St Louis (1904), with Mary Evelyn Wrinch at the galleries of the Art Metropole in Toronto (1912), and with her husband and Wrinch at the Royal Ontario Museum, in aid of the Red Cross Society (1915). In addition to producing paintings that were widely admired, Mary became financially successful and received significant reviews in the Toronto press. In 1893, she was elected an Associate of the Royal Canadian Academy of Arts, one of the first women elected.A retrospective show of Reid's work was held in 1922 at the Art Gallery of Toronto, following her death on October 4, 1921. It included 308 works. She was the first woman to posthumously receive a solo retrospective exhibition at that institution. In 2000, Mary Hiester Reid's work was rediscovered (suggested CBC Radio, 21 June 2020) when the Art Gallery of Ontario held an exhibition of her work, Quiet Harmony: The Art of Mary Hiester Reid, curated by Brian Foss and Janice Anderson. A biography by Molly Peacock is planned for publication by ECW Press in 2021. In 2021, the Art Gallery of Ontario exhibited The Open Door: Mary Hiester Reid and Helen McNicoll. ~

Source: Wikipedia.